


imperfect words inside the perfect song

by Spikedluv



Series: Declaration Series [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Episode Tag, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3795016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and his ragtag team need somewhere safe to regroup, and he knows just the place.  What he doesn’t know is if they’ll be welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	imperfect words inside the perfect song

**Author's Note:**

> Sort-of tag for 2.16 Afterlife wherein this replaces the ending and goes on from there with spoilers for 2.17 Melinda.
> 
> Touches on hints of farmer!Clint and why Clint was nowhere to be seen in CA:TWS.
> 
> Title from David Cook’s ’Declaration.’
> 
> Written: April 21, 2015

“Where are we going now?” Lance Hunter asked after Phil had given Mike Peterson the coordinates and turned back to face the computer screen.

“A safe house,” Phil said.

“A _SHIELD_ safe house?” Hunter said, sounding alarmed at the idea. “Because if SHIELD knew about it, it won’t take them long to find us again.” He paused. “Please tell me you don’t want them to find us again.” There was dismay in his tone, but also resignation.

“I don’t want them to find us again,” Phil said, then added, “And it’s not a SHIELD safe house.”

“O–kay,” Hunter said when Phil didn’t elaborate.

The rest of the flight was made in silence, except for the occasional beep of equipment, until Mike announced that they were two minutes out. Phil already knew – he’d been counting down the minutes – but hearing Mike say it out loud made his stomach lurch.

“Thermal scan,” Phil ordered, not letting his discomposure show in his voice.

“There are several heat signatures,” Mike announced. “One of them his human. Located in one of the outbuildings.”

“Outbuildings?” Hunter repeated.

Phil leaned over Mike’s shoulder so he could see the screen for himself. There was only one red dot and it was located inside the barn.

“Set down on the other side of the farmhouse,” Phil told Mike. “We don’t want to frighten the animals.”

“Farmhouse,” Hunter repeated. “We don’t want to frighten the _animals_?”

Phil didn’t dignify that with a response. He waited until Mike had set the stolen Quinjet down before opening the hatch. As it hissed open, Phil buttoned his suit jacket and straightened it as best he could given its current wrinkled state, before striding down the ramp. Mike was still shutting down the jet, but Hunter followed him, weapon drawn.

“You’re not going to need that,” Phil said, indicating the pistol in Hunter’s hand.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Hunter said.

Phil shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hunter sputtered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Phil didn’t reply, just led the way to the barn in silence, stepping over a plop of calf poop that Hunter didn’t see before stepping in it, if the sounds of disgust he made were anything to go by.

“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Hunter said.

“Watch out for calf poop,” Phil said.

“Very funny.”

Phil heard the soft murmur of a familiar voice from inside the barn as they approached. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust when they stepped inside, but his gaze finally fell on the speaker, who had his back to them as he bottle fed a calf.

Even though the man hadn’t acknowledged them, Phil knew that their presence hadn’t gone undetected. He waited for the man to pull the nipple out of the calf’s mouth with a loud pop, followed immediately by a soft bellow of protest, and straighten.

“Is she Clover’s?” Phil asked, unable to wait for the other man to speak.

Clint Barton turned to look at him. He wore a pair of jeans ripped at the knee and a light-weight, long-sleeved blue flannel shirt over a grey t-shirt that Phil knew said ‘Archers do it with a QUIVER.’ “Yes,” he said shortly, then disappeared through an open doorway.

“Was that . . . ?” Hunter said, sounding flustered.

Ignoring Hunter, Phil moved to follow Clint. He stopped when he reached the pen where Clover and her calf were being kept until the calf got a little bit older. He could hear running water from the other room and figured that Clint was washing out the bottle.

“Hey, Clover,” Phil said softly, eyes burning at the sight of the animal he and Clint had gotten as a small calf herself. She munched on hay and gave him a look as unimpressed as Clint had sounded. Phil offered his fingers to the calf, who latched onto them, suckling harder when milk didn’t immediately begin flowing into her mouth.

Phil self-consciously pulled his fingers from the calf’s mouth when Clint returned, drying his hands on a paper towel. He watched Phil in almost-amusement while Phil tried to figure out what to do with the calf saliva sliming his fingers before tossing the wet paper towel at his face.

Phil caught it easily. “Thank you,” he said, as he wiped off his fingers.

“So the rumors are true,” Clint said, voice very carefully even, face blank. “You’re alive.”

“Yes,” Phil said, giving his task more concentration than it required. When he looked up from wiping off his fingers, Clint had moved so that he was standing right in front of him. Phil didn’t even have a moment to wonder what Clint was going to do before Clint grabbed him by the lapels of his suit jacket and dragged him into a fierce kiss.

“A little warning might’ve been nice,” Hunter muttered, feet shuffling in the hay on the barn floor.

Phil ignored him. He slid his hand around the nape of Clint’s neck and kissed him back, tongue sliding along Clint’s chapped lips, slipping between them. Clint pulled back and rested his forehead against Phil’s, their breaths loud and heavy between them.

Clint released Phil’s jacket and took a step back. Phil reluctantly allowed his hand to slip off Clint’s neck, his fingertips tingling from where they’d made contact with Clint’s skin. Phil was less surprised when Clint hauled back and punched him in the mouth than he had been by the kiss, though the kiss had admittedly put him a little off-guard.

“What the fuck?” Hunter said, raising the gun he’d never put away and pointing it at Clint.

Clint ignored Hunter as if he was no more dangerous than an irritating mosquito. “Asshole,” he growled at Phil.

Phil probed his lip with the tip of his tongue, then dabbed at it with a corner of the paper towel he’d managed to hold onto through the kiss. “Please don’t shoot my husband,” he told Hunter.

“Hu–, what?” Hunter said, but he lowered the gun, if only out of shock.

“I’ve got a casserole in the oven,” Clint said angrily. “It should be ready by the time you’ve cleaned up.” Clint walked out of the barn without another word.

“Is he saying we smell?” Hunter said, tipping his head to the side and taking a discreet sniff.

“The Quinjet is secure,” Mike said from behind them, making Hunter jump.

“Thank you,” Phil said, turning around to face Mike. “Let’s go get cleaned up before supper.”

Hunter gave Phil a wide-eyed ‘what the fuck’ look as Phil passed him. “How do we know he’s not going to poison us?”

“We don’t,” Phil said with equanimity as he walked out of the barn to follow Clint to the house.

Hunter sputtered his dismay at that response. Mike snorted.

Phil walked across the yard to the back porch, familiarity causing a flutter in his belly that spread into his chest and filled it with an ache he’d become all too well-acquainted with. He glanced over to check on the shimmer that assured him the jet was hidden behind the cloak so he didn’t have to look at the house as he approached it, his feet reflexively leading him along the oft trod path.

Phil’s foot slipped into the spot worn into the bottom step, his hand touched the weathered railing that they’d talked about painting but had never gotten around to doing. Obviously Clint still hadn’t. Phil pulled the old screen door open and stepped into the mud room. The flannel shirt Clint had been wearing hung on one of the hooks on the wall, and his work shoes were on the boot tray. He heard Clint moving around in the kitchen, and so he headed in that direction.

Phil stood in the doorway watching Clint. He’d washed off at the kitchen sink, his hair standing up where he’d run wet fingers through it, and was bent over checking on something in the oven. Phil tried not to stare, but he was a man parched, and Clint was a long, cool drink of water.

“Your clothes are still in the closet,” Clint said without turning.

Phil would’ve been more surprised if Clint hadn’t known he was there, still he was surprised that Clint hadn’t yet thrown out his things. Before Phil could put voice to his thoughts, Clint went on.

“There might be something in the guestroom that’ll fit Hunter. Don’t know about your other friend.”

Phil nodded. They hadn’t brought anyone out to the farm before his so-called death, except for Natasha, but Phil couldn’t be surprised that Clint might’ve had guests in the last few years, guests who might’ve forgotten some clothes when they left.

“Clint . . .”

“Not now,” Clint said, though not harshly.

Phil didn’t like it, but he had to respect it. He didn’t particularly want to have the conversation they needed to have at all, either, but especially not in front of an audience.

“Do you care which room Hunter . . . ?”

“Just not Natasha’s,” Clint said.

“Of course not,” Phil said, but Clint didn’t respond to the dry humor in Phil’s voice.

“Mike,” Phil said, “do you need . . . ?”

“I’m good,” Mike said. “Maybe just the bathroom?”

Phil showed Mike to the half-bath on the main floor, then led Hunter upstairs and pointed out one of the two guestrooms that shared a jack and jill bath between them before taking a deep breath and stepping inside the master.

Walking through the door was like taking a step back in time. Nothing had changed, and the memories hit him like a punch to the gut. Phil shook them off, telling himself he didn’t have time for this now, and began to divest himself of his suit. He dropped everything into the laundry basket before walking into the bathroom.

The memories that assaulted him here were even more visceral as he remembered the slide of water droplets over bare skin and the bunching of muscles when he and Clint shared a shower to ‘conserve water.’ Phil turned on the water and stepped beneath the spray before it had a chance to warm. He shampooed his hair and scrubbed his skin as quickly as he could, not wanting to stay in the shower with his memories any longer than he had to.

After he’d dried off, Phil opened the closet where his suits hung. He brushed a finger over the shoulders, but there wasn’t any dust built up. Someone still cared for his suits as if he might one day walk into the house and need to wear them. The irony of that did not escape him.

Instead of taking a suit off the hanger, Phil went to the dresser set against the wall opposite the bed. He slid open a drawer cautiously, almost afraid of what he’d see – or wouldn’t see. His jeans, worn and soft, were folded inside. Phil pulled out a pair and shook them out, stepped into them.

His suits didn’t define him. He could be Phil at the end of a long day, or after a stressful op, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, but when they’d come up here it had been easier to forget about work, to drop the agent persona when he shed the suit. Worn jeans and a soft long-sleeved t-shirt meant that it was safe to relax. Even if it was an illusion, with Gonzales having taken The Playground and his people, and still hunting Phil, it was one he needed right now.

~*~*~*~

Mike and Clint were in the living room when Phil returned downstairs. Phil knew that Clint heard him coming by the tightness in his shoulders, but he didn’t say anything. At least, not to Phil.

“I’m gonna go set the table,” Clint told Mike. “Relax ‘til Hunter comes down.”

Clint’s gaze swept over Phil when he turned around. For a brief moment his eyes widened in astonishment when he saw Phil dressed comfortably in jeans and a soft sweater rather than armored in his usual suit, and then it passed and Clint’s blank facade returned. Phil felt a punch of guilt; Clint had never been that good at hiding his feelings before, not from him.

“I’ll help,” Phil offered.

“I got it,” Clint said tightly.

“It’s the least I can do,” Phil said, not realizing his mistake until the words were out of his mouth.

“It’s the least you can do?” Clint repeated angrily, and then he shook off his reaction and turned his back on Phil.

Phil followed Clint’s ramrod stiff back to the kitchen; Mike wisely kept his eyes trained on the television set Clint must’ve bought after Phil’s . . . after the attack on New York. Phil stood in the doorway once more and watched Clint move around the kitchen with angry, jerky motions. Even so, the table was set with four place settings without a single plate or fork making a sound when they were placed.

Clint’s control, his ability to do what had to be done despite the crap circumstances they normally found themselves in, had been legendary, and stood him in good stead now. Phil knew, though, that eventually that control would slip and Clint would go off like a volcano.

“Tell Hunter to call Mike,” Clint said, though he’d never even raised his head from his task to acknowledge Phil’s presence.

Phil turned his head and saw Hunter coming down the stairs. “Bring Mike, supper’s ready.”

Hunter blanched at the thought that they might all be poisoned, and Phil took a bit of pleasure out of his not-quite-as-irrational-as-Phil-might-hope fear. Phil turned back in time to see Clint move the casserole from the top of the stove where he’d set it when he took it out of the oven, to the cutting board in the center of the table. Clint stuck a spoon in it, then dropped a basket of sliced Italian bread onto the table along with a dish of butter.

Clint waited for the others to reach the kitchen and gestured for them to take a seat before pulling out a chair for himself. Out of habit, Phil moved to the chair to Clint’s right. Clint’s hand jerked a little bit and the chair leg skidded across the floor.

Clint dished up some of the casserole – zucchini casserole, Phil noted — onto his plate, then moved the spoon so Hunter could fill his own plate.

Hunter took the spoon, then hesitated. “You didn’t poison this, did you?”

Clint looked at Hunter for a few beats before saying, “No.”

Hunter looked relieved, then worried again. “But you would say that if you’d poisoned it, wouldn’t you?”

Clint’s smile was not reassuring. Then again, it wasn’t meant to be. Phil ducked his head so no one – most especially Clint – saw him bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Give me the damn spoon if you’re not going to eat,” Mike said, breaking the spell.

Hunter dished up some of the casserole and Clint took a slice of bread from the basket, spread it liberally with butter. Phil didn’t say anything until a spoonful of casserole – a mixture of sliced zucchini, ground beef, Mozzarella cheese, and spaghetti sauce – was cooling on his plate.

Out of habit he touched Clint’s foot beneath the table to get his attention. Clint froze for a second, then looked up from his plate to look at Phil.

“Did you know we were coming?” Phil said.

“How would I know that?” Clint said, and then went back to eating without moving his foot away from Phil’s.

Phil didn’t know what to make of that, or the fact that Clint’s response hadn’t actually been a ‘no.’

“So, you two,” Hunter said, gesturing between Clint and Phil with his fork while he chewed. Mike made a sound and Hunter turned to him. “What?”

“You really don’t have any sense of self-preservation, do you?”

“You’ve only just met me!” Hunter said.

“And yet I already know that about you,” Mike said dryly.

Phil let Hunter and Mike bicker because it took the focus off of him and Clint. And it left him free to think about the fact that Clint had made Phil’s favorite dish on the same day that Phil appeared at the farm. There was no such thing as coincidence, right?

“Well, we’re not dead yet,” Hunter said when his plate was wiped clean with the last bite of bread. He pushed back from the table with a contented sigh.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable just yet,” Clint said, smiling. He stood and picked up his plate and the nearly empty basket of bread.

“You ate it, too,” Hunter pointed out.

“Maybe I’ve been dosing myself a little bit at a time and have built up an immunity. Or maybe I have the antidote. Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“I hate you,” Hunter said.

“We’ll clean up,” Phil offered, also standing.

“You don’t have to,” Clint said, sliding the basket onto the counter.

“You cooked,” Phil said, picking up his own empty plate, “it’s the . . .” Both Phil and Clint froze before Phil finished smoothly, “It’s only fair that we clean up.”

Clint released his death grip on the plate and set it next to the sink. “Fine,” he agreed. “I’ve got shit to do outside.”

With that, Clint left the three of them standing – well, Phil was standing – in the kitchen. A moment later, the screen door slammed. Phil shook himself. “Hunter will wash while I dry.”

“Why do I have to wash?” Hunter said.

“Would you rather dry?” Phil asked.

“I don’t actually have a preference,”Hunter said. “I was just curious about the allocation of resources.”

Phil raised his eyebrows, but Hunter appeared quite willing to wait him out. Phil hated to give an inch, but he hoped that Hunter would let go of it if he answered his question. “I’m drying because I probably have a better idea of where things go than you do.”

“Probably?” Hunter said, and this time Phil did pierce him with a glare.

“If you’d rather, you could go help Clint with his chores,” Phil said dryly.

“Shoveling shit, you mean?” Hunter said. “No thanks.” He jumped up and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, where’s the dishpan and soap?”

“You’re an agent of SHIELD now,” Phil said dryly. “I bet if you put your mind to it, you can find them.”

“I thought you said you . . .”

At the look on Phil’s face, Hunter zipped his lips and then began opening cupboard doors. While Hunter was getting the plastic dish out from under the sink, Phil turned to Mike. “Check on the jet. See if they’ve attempted to access the systems.”

“Of course,” Mike agreed.

“Then a perimeter check?”

Mike nodded, and then left.

~*~*~*~

Phil stepped out onto the back porch and closed the screen door silently behind him. He’d told Hunter that he could explore the farm, but he declined going any further than the swing on the front porch to wait for Mike to return. Phil didn’t know whether Hunter was more afraid of running into a loose calf or chicken, or stepping in another cow patty.

From the porch Phil heard the ‘thwap, thwap’ of Clint’s bowstring and followed the sound. They’d built a shooting range into one of the unused outbuildings, but Clint had set up some 3D targets outside so he could enjoy the beautiful outdoors the farm had to offer when the weather permitted. Phil wasn’t surprised that Clint was there now, blowing off some steam with his bow.

Phil walked slowly, looking around at his surroundings, cataloguing the changes. There weren’t as many as he’d expected. Even though he was headed for a confrontation with Clint, and on the run from a man who wanted to capture him, Phil felt himself relaxing as the familiar sounds of the farm washed over him.

Phil leaned against the back of the building that housed the shooting range and watched Clint shoot. Clint hadn’t grabbed his flannel shirt when he’d slammed out of the house, so Phil could see his muscles bunch with each pull of the bowstring. His movements weren’t a blur, so Phil figured that he’d had enough time to cool off somewhat. Still, when Clint had shot his last arrow, Phil didn’t offer to help him retrieve them. It might not sound like an intimate situation, but it often had been for them.

Clint didn’t acknowledge Phil or do anything to give him a sign that Clint knew he was even there, but Phil knew that Clint was as aware of him as he was of Clint. Clint set up and emptied the quiver once more before he spoke.

“I find it interesting that you were willing to let me believe you were dead for three years and only came here now as a last resort when someone’s trying to kill you.”

Phil didn’t know what part of that he should respond to first. What came out was, “No one’s trying to kill me. Probably. Put me in a cage and study me, maybe.”

Clint didn’t look impressed with Phil’s apparent levity.

“How long have you known?” Phil asked.

Clint shrugged. “Six months, or so.”

Phil felt an irrational stab of hurt that Clint hadn’t bothered to look for him before realizing how unreasonable and ridiculous that was. He had little right to that emotion after leaving Clint in the dark for nearly three years.

“JARVIS went through all the documents that Nat dropped online and collated everything. Fury liked to play things close to the vest, but he couldn’t keep everything off the record. JARVIS discovered some interesting anomalies. Huge medical expenses, money going into programs that had supposedly been shut down. And then you started showing up on Youtube.”

“What? Skye was supposed to be pulling anything that made it online!”

“Once it’s online, it’s online forever. If someone’s willing to take the time to look for it,” Clint said. “I recognize the guy in there, Mike, from Union Station in Los Angeles.”

“Clint . . .”

“New team,” Clint said. “They must be really great.”

‘To keep you away from me,’ Phil heard.

“I missed you,” Phil said.

Clint turned and walked to the end of the lane and retrieved his arrows. Phil wished he could go back in time and change things. There was so much he’d do differently. But that was a pipedream. They were stuck with the way things were now. He couldn’t go back, he could only go forward.

Phil watched in silence as Clint put his arrows in the quiver, and then carried it and his bow inside the shooting range. Phil followed, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, and watched Clint stow everything away and lock up. When Clint exited the shooting range, Phil continued to follow him. Clint went to the barn – he’d always liked to do a check of the animals before going to bed – and stopped at Clover’s pen.

“What did you name her?” Phil asked.

“Philomena,” Clint said.

Phil had no idea if Clint was serious (probably not), but he winced and gave the calf an apologetic look. “You poor thing.”

In a move Phil didn’t see coming, Clint pinned him against the wall. Before he could attempt to guess whether Clint was going to hit him again, Clint kissed him. It was angry, and there were teeth and the taste of blood, and Phil didn’t care.

He couldn’t get his hands out of his pockets fast enough. All he could think about was getting them on Clint, pulling him in until there wasn’t a whisper of space between them. He wanted to turn them around, push Clint against the wall and press their bodies together until they both came in their pants like teenagers, but he needed for Clint to be the one in control, the one to dictate of far they went. Or didn’t go.

Clint got his leg between Phil’s, and Phil couldn’t contain his groan at the sweet pressure. He tipped his head back when Clint went for his neck, rolling his hips against Clint as Clint rocked into him. Clint pulled back and Phil tried to reel him back in, then let go as if he’d been burned.

“Sorry . . . I . . . sorry.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Clint said, as if he was completely unaware of Phil’s inner turmoil.

“What? I . . . What?” Phil said, but Clint was already walking away.

Phil took a deep breath, rearranged himself in his jeans, and followed Clint out of the barn. Hunter and Mike were both sitting on the couch watching television when Clint and Phil entered the house. They turned their heads when they heard them.

“I’m calling it a night,” Clint said, sketching a wave and then taking the steps two at a time.

Phil said, “Status, Mr. Peterson?” and stared down Hunter as if he didn’t have a hickey blooming on his neck and wasn’t still sporting a hard-on.

“All secure,” Mike said. “I figured out how to route the system to my implant, so I’ll be alerted if there’s a breach.”

“Oh my god,” Hunter groaned.

Phil ignored Hunter and kept his gaze trained on Mike as if he hadn’t just inadvertently made a sexual innuendo. “Good,” Phil said. “Let me know if . . . you hear anything.”

“Will do,” Mike said.

“I’m going to turn in, too,” Phil said. He forced himself to take the steps one at a time, but it was ridiculously difficult.

Behind him, Phil heard Hunter say, “Breach, really?”

~*~*~*~

When Phil stepped into the master suite, Clint was exiting the bathroom. His torso was bare, and it was obvious that he’d washed up at the sink. He held the t-shirt crumpled up in his hands and stopped when he saw Phil.

Phil couldn’t drag his gaze away from Clint. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten what Clint looked like, and even if he was trying to be objective, he knew that Clint had to be in good (amazing) shape to do what he did, but he’d tried not to think about it, to torment himself with the memories of how easily Clint could flip him around in bed, or hold him up when they were fucking against a wall.

Phil blindly reached behind himself and pushed the door shut until he heard the ‘snick’ that meant it had latched. He engaged the lock. For good measure he dragged a ladder back chair over and lodged it beneath the knob. When he looked back at Clint, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Something I should know?”

“Precaution,” Phil said.

Clint’s finger flexed on the ball of material in his hand, and then he tossed it away and moved towards Phil. Phil’s breath caught at the sight. He imagined pulling Clint into a hungry kiss and pushing him down on the bed. Instead, Phil put his arms around Clint and just held onto him.

Clint stood stiff for a moment, and then moved his hands from Phil’s hips to his back. “Phil?”

“Sorry,” Phil said, burying his face deeper into Clint’s neck. “I just . . . I missed you.”

There was a sound, like words caught in Clint’s throat, and then his arms tightened around Phil. “I missed you, too. Asshole.”

And Phil had missed _this_ , missed the moments when he didn’t have to be Agent Phillip J. Coulson, the man in charge, the man with all the answers. When he could just be someone’s friend, someone’s lover. When he could let someone hold him and share his burden. He thrived on the pressure of working for SHIELD, but sometimes he needed to let himself unwind, and Clint had always been an important part of that, even long before they had given in and shared their first kiss.

Phil had lost that, but so had Clint. “God, Clint,” Phil said. “I’m so sorry.”

If Phil hadn’t been pressed so closely against Clint, he might have missed the minuscule tensing of his body. “We’re not talking about that tonight.”

“No,” Phil agreed. He drew back so he could see Clint’s face. “But I need to say it. Before we . . . You don’t have to forgive me, I know that’s asking a lot, maybe too much, but I need to say it. That’s selfish, I know, but . . . I should stop talking now,” Phil said when he realized that he was babbling.

Phil didn’t know if he’d just ruined his chance of having sex with Clint or not, but he didn’t know if he could do that, if he could _have_ that just for a moment before it was ripped away from him again.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Clint said, and even though he’d half expected that Phil still felt a clench of terror in his gut. “When you died . . .” Clint gave a humorless laugh. “Well, I was a mess. There were times I thought about . . . I blamed myself.”

“Oh, Clint,” Phil breathed. “No.”

“It took me a long time to just be able to make it through the day, and then I found out that you were alive, and that you’d let me believe you were dead. It hurt,” Clint said, though Phil knew from his own stab of hurt earlier that it was an understatement.

“I made some bad decisions,” Phil admitted. “I thought I was making the right decision at the time.” Which wasn’t entirely true, he knew. He’d put off making some decisions because he’d been a coward, which had been just as good as making the decision. “But if I could go back, I’d do so many things differently.”

“Starting with confronting Loki without backup on the helicarrier?” Clint bit out.

Phil’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected their discussion of Phil’s bad decisions to go back that far, though he probably should have. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this now.”

Clint shook his head angrily, and a little bit resigned. “You are so frustrating!”

“Me?” Phil said. “I’ve seen footage of New York! You jumped off a _building_!”

The kiss was more of a bite, as if Clint just wanted to shut him up. Which was fine, because Phil wanted to shut Clint up, too. Phil knew that their lips were going to be red and swollen from the careless, desperate kisses, but he didn’t care.

As if his mind clicked over from ‘talking’ to ‘sex’, Phil realized that the back beneath his hands was bare. He spread his fingers over Clint’s skin, feeling the heat of him, the way his muscles moved under Phil’s touch.

Clint pushed Phil’s sweater up, and then seemed to get distracted by the skin he’d bared. Phil’s stomach rubbed against Clint’s and he wanted his sweater off so his entire torso could rub against Clint’s. The dilemma was that he didn’t want to take his hands off of Clint long enough to make it happen. Neither did Clint, apparently.

Finally, after another tantalizing brush of skin, Phil couldn’t take it any longer. He let go of Clint long enough to pull the sweater off over his head, even though it meant pausing the kiss for the few seconds it took to clear his face. Kissing with his arms in the air while he freed them from the sweater was awkward, but better than the alternative.

As soon as he dropped the sweater, Phil moved back in as close to Clint as he could get and brought his arms back around him. He moaned softly when their chests touched, and was gratified when Clint made a similar sound.

He’d missed this. Phil hadn’t realized how much until now, holding Clint in his arms. He’d pushed everything down, had sublimated his new job, his new team for the things he’d been forced to give up. Now that he’d had a taste of it, of what he’d been missing, Phil didn’t know if he could let it go again.

He only hoped he’d never have to find out whether he could honor Clint’s decision if he couldn’t forgive Phil, if he didn’t want him around.

“What are you thinking about?” Clint said, exasperated.

“I don’t know if I can give this up again,” Phil said, filter suddenly non-existent.

Clint snorted. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Phil’s heart leapt in his chest at the words, only to come crashing back down when Clint continued.

“It didn’t seem that tough the first time. Just like riding a bike, right?”

“I don’t know if you’re doing this because you’re angry or because you missed me. Because you love me or because you hate me,” Phil said, trying not to sound too despairing.

“Maybe a little bit of all of them,” Clint said.

Phil didn’t know whether it was good or bad that Clint had been able to admit that.

“I don’t know what tomorrow’s going to bring,” Clint said. “ _You_ don’t know what tomorrow’s going to bring. Can’t we just be _now_?”

“Yes,” Phil said, because if it turned out that now was all they had, then Phil wanted it, no matter how much it would hurt later.

The way Clint looked at him when they lay naked on the bed, the feel of warm skin and firm muscles, the brush of fingertips and catch of callouses, would have to be enough.

~*~*~*~

Clint was already up and gone when Phil woke up the next morning. Phil pushed down the stab of hurt when he reached out and his hand met cold sheets on Clint’s side of the bed, and thought instead of how deeply he’d slept that he hadn’t heard Clint get up.

Phil showered (brushing his teeth with a toothbrush that Clint had set out for him) and dressed in one of the suits hanging in the closet. It fit surprisingly well for a suit he hadn’t worn in over three years.

Downstairs smelled like bacon and coffee. Mike and Hunter were sitting at the kitchen table, mugs in front of them when Phil walked in.

“Where’s Clint?” Phil asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee, patting himself on the back for managing to keep his voice even.

“Said something about chores,” Hunter said.

“He left bacon in the warming oven,” Mike said. “Told us to help ourselves to anything we needed.”

“Any breaches in security?” Phil asked Mike, even though he was pretty sure he’d have been notified if there had been.

“No,” Mike said.

“Okay. Have the two of you eaten?” Phil asked.

“It felt too weird eating Clint’s food when he’s not even here,” Hunter said.

“Clint wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t mean it,” Phil said. “There’s probably fresh eggs in the refrigerator, and more of that homemade bread. Get something to eat and then we’re going to come up with a plan to find Skye. Just do your own dishes,” he added as he took his mug and left the kitchen.

Phil took a moment to breathe in the fresh air before stepping off the porch and beginning the walk to the barn. He took his time, both looking forward to and dreading seeing Clint again. So much was still left unsettled between them, and Phil could be called away at a moment’s notice, leaving things unresolved for who knew how long.

Phil saw Clover munching on grass while her calf gamboled about in the pasture, so Clint was probably cleaning out their pen. When Phil reached the front of the barn, both large doors rolled all the way open, he could barely make out Clint through the hay dust swirling in the air. Phil watched silently as Clint moved bales of hay from the pile he’d made when he threw them down from the mow, stacking them in an unused pen.

“Did you eat?” Clint asked without glancing at Phil or pausing in his work.

“No,” Phil said. “But the coffee’s delicious.”

Clint’s hand jerked and he missed grabbing hold of the baling twine. “It should be, it’s your favorite.”

“I noticed. Thank you.”

Clint carried and stacked several more bales of hay without speaking while Phil watched, almost loathe to break the silence, yet unwilling to let it continue indefinitely. “Why did you throw down so many?” he finally asked, figuring that bales of hay was a safe topic.

Clint clenched his jaw before answering. “So Bill . . . Billy,” he corrected, “doesn’t have to do it. He’s gonna check on the place and do the chores for me for a few days.”

Phil wanted to ask why Clint needed anyone to do the chores for him for a few days, but what came out was a shocked, “Billy?”

“Yes, Billy,” Clint said. “He’s not 12 anymore, Phil.”

Clint kept his voice even, but Phil could read the anger behind the words. Of course Billy had grown up in the years that Phil had been gone, and of course Clint would know better than Phil whether he’d turned into a responsible enough young man to trust him with the farm for a few days.

He’d known – of course he’d known – that he’d missed things, but he hadn’t _known_ it right to the core of himself. Clover had a calf, and it probably wasn’t her first, and Billy was no longer 12-years old and begging Clint to teach him how to shoot a bow. And Clint . . . Phil didn’t know, but he thought maybe Clint had changed most of all.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said. “You’re right. I was just . . . surprised.”

“Do you remember when Billy ran away from home and snuck into our hay mow?” Clint said, extending an olive branch.

Phil’s relieved laugh was very nearly a sob. “How could I forget that? Or him knocking on the door at two o’clock in the morning because he was freezing.”

“He’s lucky we were even here that weekend,” Clint said.

“Yes, lucky,” Phil said, recalling how Clint had made hot cocoa with real milk and sat and talked with Billy at their kitchen table while Phil had called his parents from the other room.

“How _are_ Bill and Sue?” Phil asked, not that they’d come to mind.

“Fine,” Clint said, then sighed. “Bill lost his job a couple years ago. He and Sue opened the Tastee Freeze back up. She still teaches, but she helps out during the summer break.”

“I’m glad to hear they’re doing well,” Phil said. “And Billy, does he still beg you to teach him how to shoot a bow?”

“Doesn’t have to,” Clint said with a small smile. “I teach archery at the Y.”

“You . . . What?”

“He used to come out for some private lessons,” Clint went on as he continued to stack bales of hay, ignoring Phil’s question, “but he’s got a girlfriend now, so he doesn’t have as much time for it. Which is why I know he can use the extra cash. Plus, he was here when . . . Clover’s calf was born.”

Clint’s hesitation, brief as it was, didn’t escape Phil’s notice. “Please tell me you didn’t really name her Philomena.”

“I didn’t,” Clint said, but Phil’s relief was short-lived. “Billy did. He asked if it was alright.”

Phil didn’t know why that got to him more than anything else since he’d arrived at the farm yesterday. Maybe it was the final straw. Phil didn’t know if he made a sound or was suspiciously silent, but something made Clint look over at him.

“Sometimes I don’t know whether I hate you more than I love you right now,” Clint said sadly.

“Fair,” Phil said, voice thick from unshed tears.

Clint looked . . . broken, and Phil had been the one to do that to him.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said.

“Why?” Clint asked. “I mean, why did you do it?”

 _Why did you let me believe you were dead?_ Phil heard.

He’d had so many reasons, and they’d seemed so important at the time, but looking back now he didn’t know if they had been. Or if he’d just been a coward. He looked at Clint, who was still waiting for answer.

“Did you . . . see what Fury did to bring me back?”

Clint shook his head.

“It was . . . extreme,” Phil said. “And unpleasant. And then he covered up those awful memories with false memories. I knew that something was off. I felt . . . wrong, somehow.” Phil flexed his fingers as he recalled fumbling the slide.

“At first I didn’t know what they’d done to me. I didn’t even have clearance to view my own medical file. I didn’t trust them, and I couldn’t trust myself.”

“Phil,” Clint said.

When Phil looked up, he saw that Clint was standing right in front of him, and that he looked worried.

Phil shook his head. “But I should’ve told you. I should’ve . . .”

“Yes,” Clint said. “You should have.”

And then Phil was being held in Clint’s arms and kissed so sweetly it made him ache. He dropped the mug onto the wooden floor so he could put his arms around Clint and didn’t even care that he’d spilled some of his favorite coffee or might’ve chipped the mug. Clint was warm from exertion even though the morning was still cool, and he smelled like hay and hard work.

Clint pulled back and Phil could see the reluctance to do so on his face. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat and you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

Clint bent down to pick up Phil’s dropped mug and then snagged his flannel shirt off the hook before taking Phil’s hand and heading back to the house.

~*~*~*~

“You haven’t heard?” Phil said in response to Clint’s comment. “Though, if you’ve been here since SHIELD fell, maybe you haven’t heard.”

“Since New York,” Clint said.

“What?”

“I’ve been here since New York. When the shit hit the fan, everything happened so fast. I didn’t find out about HYDRA until it was all over.”

“Since New York?” Phil repeated. “Clint . . .”

“Me later,” Clint said. “You now.”

Phil huffed at his own hypocrisy of wanting to know what had happened with Clint when he’d kept his own resurrection a secret from the man. Fury had never told him, and he’d just assumed . . .

Clint took his work boots off on porch and walked into the house in just his socks. A little butterfly took up residence in Phil’s belly as he was swamped by memories of seeing Clint just like this when they’d been here together.

Mike and Hunter were no longer in the kitchen, but there were clean plates and mugs in the dish drainer and a note on the table that they were doing a perimeter check. Hunter must’ve felt safer walking around the farm in the daylight.

“What?” Clint said when he caught Phil’s lip twitch.

Phil waved the note at Clint. “Hunter stepped in calf poop yesterday.”

Clint grinned. “That’s too bad.”

Phil hummed in response.

Clint fried up eggs fresh from the chickens and Phil made toast. While they prepped and ate, Phil filled Clint in on what had been going on the last few weeks.

“Bobbi?” Clint said at one point.

“Yeah, it was a little hard for me to believe, too,” Phil said.

Over dishes, Clint asked, “What are you going to do now?”

“Everyone else is safe for the time being, so I have to find Skye. I don’t know who took her,” Phil said.

“You think HYDRA?” Clint said.

“They’ve been collecting people with powers, Phil said, unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

“For nothing good, probably,” Clint said.

“No.”

“Have you thought about calling in the Avengers for this?”

“That presumes we can’t get them back before HYDRA turns them,” Phil said, though he couldn’t help thinking about Donnie Gill and how quickly HYDRA had gotten inside his mind to plant a trigger.

“You’re worried about her?” Clint said.

“I worry about all my team,” Phil said, almost defensively. “Skye’s had to learn quickly.” He glanced at Clint. “May was her S.O.”

“Then she’s probably kicking ass and taking names as we speak,” Clint said.

Phil managed a weak smile. “If they took her because they found out that she gained powers,” he said, letting it hang. The man who took her was powered, and if he wasn’t working for HYDRA, that meant there was a third party out there collecting people with powers. Phil didn’t know which would be worse.

“What are you going to do?” Clint asked.

Phil’s smile held no humor. “Make a deal with the devil.”

Before Clint could respond, they heard footsteps on the back steps. They both reflexively reached for weapons they weren’t wearing, and then looked at each other. A moment later they heard the screen door open and Mike’s and Hunter’s voices. Clint casually set the fork he’d palmed to use as a weapon back in the drawer and Phil’s grip loosened on the plate he held.

“Report,” Phil said when Hunter and Mike appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Holy f–eck!” Hunter said. “Was that really necessary, Coulson?”

“Yes,” Phil said, ignoring the fact that he and Clint were both unarmed (aside from cutlery). “You can’t presume we’re safe, even here.”

“We just did a perimeter check,” Hunter argued. “We’re as safe as we can be.”

“He’s right,” Mike said, sounding like he wished he could disagree.

“Thank you,” Hunter said, exaggerating the vowels.

“You guys know I do have security out here,” Clint said, but Hunter ignored him.

“They really didn’t startle you?” Hunter asked Mike.

“No. I saw Clint’s boots on the back porch.”

“You couldn’t have given me a heads up that they were in here?”

“No,” Mike said without having to even consider his answer.

“Are you gentlemen done?” Phil said.

“No,” Hunter said, then realized who he was speaking to. “But we’ll table it for now.” He glared at Mike. “We’re not done.”

“Yes, we are,” Mike said to Hunter, then to Phil, “What’s the plan, Director?”

Clint pulled a chair away from the table. “I need to sit down for this.”

“Are you alright?” Phil asked worriedly.

“Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re the Director of SHIELD now.”

“What’s left of it,” Phil said.

“And only our little corner of that,” Hunter said.

Phil and Clint glared at him.

“Sorry. You were saying, Director?”

“Gonzales took The Playground . . .”

“The _Playground_?” Clint said, and looked utterly unrepentant when Phil glared at him. “Is there, like, a jungle gym and everything?”

“But he’s not planning to harm anyone,” Phil continued. “He told me that he’ll offer them all the chance to make their own decision about joining his group. That’s not true for Skye, though. We don’t know who took her, or what they want her for. We need to find her.”

“How do we do that?” Hunter said. “Like you said, we don’t even know who took her. That guy just . . . appeared out of nowhere.”

“We do know that HYDRA’s been collecting people with powers,” Phil said. “So we start there.”

“Do you know where HYDRA hangs their hat these days?” Hunter asked.

“No,” Phil said. “But I know someone who might. We’re going to need the computer onboard the Quinjet.”

“Who are we looking for?” Mike asked.

“Grand Ward.”

~*~*~*~

The reaction Phil got was exactly what he’d expected.

“Grant Ward,” Hunter said. “The same Grant Ward who betrayed you, who killed an unknown number of SHIELD agents, who attempted to kill Fitz and Simmons, and who kidnapped Skye? That Grant Ward?”

“Yes,” Phil said.

“Are you nuts? And what even makes you think he’ll help you?”

“The enemy of my enemy,” Phil said.

“You’re basing your entire plan on an ancient proverb?”

“Yes. Plus the fact that Grant Ward is in love with Skye. In a dark and twisted sort of way. He’ll want to help because it’s Skye. But we’ll have to be on the lookout for the double-cross.”

“Sounds like fun,” Mike said. “I’ll go set up the search parameters.”

“Thank you,” Phil said.

“I need to shoot something,” Hunter said.

“I’ve got a place you can do that,” Clint said told him.

When he was alone in the kitchen, Phil took the seat Clint had vacated. He should’ve been thinking about Skye, or his agents left behind at The Playground when May had shoved him into that elevator. Instead he thought about all the things he’d learned about Clint in the last 18 hours. He wanted to know why Clint had left a job he’d loved, and whether he’d been living on their farm the entire time, and how long he’d been teaching archery . . .

“You look deep in thought,” Clint said, startling Phil out of those thoughts.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Phil said.

“I could tell. Thinking about Skye?”

“No,” Phil said, though the notion of lying did cross his mind.

Clint gave a little nod of his head. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“I should probably not join you,” Phil said before he could censor himself.

The corners of Clint’s lips twitched. “I didn’t ask you to,” his mouth said, but his eyes sent a different message.

“I, um, I should probably go check on Mike,” Phil said.

“You go do that,” Clint said, but his expression said he knew that was the last thing Phil wanted to do.

Phil waited until he heard Clint’s footsteps overhead before he attempted to stand. He went out and stood on the porch trying to get his bearings, but all he could think was that, aside from the cursory clean-up the night before, Clint hadn’t washed Phil off of him yet.

Phil shook his head. “Get a grip, Coulson,” he told himself, and strode down the steps.

When Phil approached the Quinjet, Mike glanced up at him. “You know this is going to take a while, right?”

“Yeah,” Phil said. “I just needed to get out of the house. Clint’s taking a shower. I just meant that there’s no need for me to be in the house right now.”

Mike nodded. Phil was pretty sure there was a hint of amusement somewhere behind the bland facade Mike showed him, but he still hadn’t found it before Mike turned back to the screen.

Phil sat on the bench behind Mike and watched the search run. He was so absorbed in his thoughts – this time about what approach would work best with Ward when they finally found him – that he nearly missed Mike’s comment.

“I didn’t know you were married,” Mike said.

“Not many people did,” Phil said. Natasha, Fury, Maria. Jasper.

“How long?”

Phil snorted. “Counting the three years he thought I was dead?”

“Rough, man,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, but he knew that it had been rougher on Clint.

They fell silent. Phil thought about waiting on the porch under the reasoning that a watched search never provides results, but he didn’t want to get any more comfortable here than he’d already gotten. He didn’t know if he’d ever be back, if Clint would want him back.

Hunter showed up and sat beside Phil. “Nice firing range,” he said.

Phil nodded. He’d used the range, but he couldn’t take credit for it’s design – that was all Clint.

“I’ve got something,” Mike said, excitement thrumming through his voice.

“You found Ward?” Phil asked, leaning forward.

“No,” Mike said. “Someone found us.”

Mike pointed, and since Hunter was closest he stood and picked up Phil’s tablet.

“Hunter?” a familiar voice said.

“How did you get Coulson’s tablet?”

“Whe–? Is that a farm? Where are you?”

Hunter glanced over his shoulder. “Uhm, undisclosed secure location?”

“Fitz?” Phil said.

~*~*~*~

Clint was sitting on the swing on the back porch when Phil rushed out of the jet. He watched steadily as Phil approach. “Find him?”

“Not yet,” Phil said. “But one of my team managed to get Fury’s Toolbox out of The Playground.”

Clint raised an impressed eyebrow. “So you’re going to go pick them up?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Clint said. “I hate sitting around and waiting.”

Phil smiled fondly at the memory. “You always did.”

Clint stood up and Phil noticed for the first time how he was dressed – black cargo pants, black t-shirt (that was more form-fitting than necessary, Phil thought), and black military boots. He watched speechless as Clint threw his go bag over his shoulder and picked up his bow case.

“Clint,” Phil said.

Clint ignored him and headed for the steps.

“Clint, what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna fly your jet.”

“No,” Phil said. “You’re out of SHIELD, and you’ve got the farm . . .”

Clint paused long enough to brush his lips across Phil’s, and then he was striding purposefully down the steps and across the yard towards the Quinjet. “Tell the kiddies to use the toilet before we take off because I’m not pulling over,” Clint called back over his shoulder.

“Clint,” Phil tried again, but he had to admit that he didn’t try very hard.

When Phil reached the jet, the bow case had already been stowed and Clint was strapped into the pilot’s seat. Phil watched as he began the pre-flight checklist. “Anyone have to use the bathroom before we leave?” Phil said.

Since he was staring at Clint like a lovesick teenager, Phil didn’t miss the half-smile that curved the corner of his lips at that. Phil walked to the front of the jet while Mike and Hunter headed for the ramp. “Are you sure about this?” he asked Clint.

“I’m sure,” Clint said. “Besides,” he added, his voice low enough that Phil had to strain to hear. “You came to me when you didn’t have anywhere else to go. Gotta keep you alive long enough for me to figure out what the hell I’m gonna do with you.”

It wasn’t a declaration of forgiveness, but it was more than Phil had any right to expect. “Are you joining back up?”

“Nah,” Clint said. “Consider me freelance.” Then added. “For now.”

Not so surprisingly, Phil found he didn’t mind that at all.

The End


End file.
